


In Case of Emergency (Don't Break My Heart)

by LadyBoBo



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Enemies to Lovers, Happy Endings for All Gays Forever, M/M, Read chapter notes for warnings!!, emergency services au, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23319730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBoBo/pseuds/LadyBoBo
Summary: In the wake of his father’s latest medical scare, Richie gives up his badge at the Chicago PD to run home to Derry—a place full of old friends, deep seated trauma, and his favorite nemesis: Eddie Kaspbrak.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	In Case of Emergency (Don't Break My Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, my newest WIP! In an effort to keep myself sane during this quarantine, I'm posting as I go, basically, so please be patient with my floundering, and let me know your thoughts to keep me trucking along! This was originally supposed to just be a fun Rom-Com, but in typical me fashion, it got a bit angsty and deep. But the fluff and fun (and smut) will certainly be there in spades!
> 
> This is probably going to be the heaviest chapter, warning-wise. Nothing worse than the content of the movie will take place, but do keep in mind it involves criminal activity and storylines interwoven with police, medical, and fire departments.
> 
> ******Warnings for this chapter include: homophobic language, minor homophobic violence, internalized homophobia, general minor violence, and implied attempted sexual violence******

As the _Welcome to Derry!_ sign comes into view, Richie slows his car to a near crawl. He left this shitty town when he was eighteen years old, as soon as the brutal grip of high school released him, and he hasn’t been back in fifteen years. The thought of crossing back over makes him anxious. Makes him feel like a failure, even though he’s not walking into a mess of his own making.

His dad is sick, fresh in recovery after his second heart attack. His mom’s a mess, stretching herself thin pulling hygienist shifts at the dental practice her husband owns but can’t even work at anymore, and then coming home and doting on him, praying he gets back on his feet. Richie is terrified his mom is going to keel over dead taking care of a man who is halfway to death’s door as it is, and then he’ll be left with absolutely nothing.

So even though it means staring down the barrel of the worst years of his life, Richie has resigned from his impressive and hard-won Detective position at the Chicago PD, thrown some shit in a suitcase, and is on his way to run home to play nursemaid for his dad. Just for a few months, until his dad’s health improves. Or until the worse, far more morbid option that no one is ready to talk about.

His stay in Derry is nothing permanent. No matter how much his mom needles and begs him to move closer, Richie’s not going to let anything trap him back in the suffocating clutches of the hell-town he grew up in. He doesn’t care if his mom says the place has changed—no one ever changes _that_ much. This shithole wasn’t big enough for Richie Tozier when he was a 5’5” bean pole, now that he’s doubled in size and attitude, it won’t take more than three months for Derry to cave in around him from all sides.

He could last _maybe_ six months. But that’s it.

It’s been three years since he saw his parents in the flesh—a situation growing from the piling medical bills draining their funds and his dad’s medical advisory against travel—but he just can’t do it. He loves them. He wants to take care of them. But he’s afraid that he’ll die too if he stays for too long.

The old, worn out feelings are already lancing back through his chest as he crosses the town line, dragging him down a memory lane littered with violent debris.

  
—————————————————  


_From the very first day that Richie could string complex thoughts together, all he’s ever wanted is to feel important. It’s not like he wants to feel like he’s better than anybody, he just wants to matter. To someone. To anyone. He isn’t picky, really. In fact, he’s got chronically low standards, and he’ll settle for the absolute bottom of the barrel, no questions asked._

_The thing is, Richie’s always been a loud kid, and at thirteen he’s excitable and smart and talks a mile a minute about everything that flits through his head. Recycled jokes from movies, rants in various Voices that really just all sound the same, an equal amount of barbs and sweet talk for anyone who’s willing to put up with him for more than five minutes._

_People have gotten pretty good at tuning him out, but that doesn’t really sit too well with Richie. He has a terrible, burning need to be noticed. To be enjoyed. To be loved._

_His parents are cool people. Well,_ **_nice_ ** _people. Richie’s always thought they’re a little bit boring and serious, and that’s fine, because they probably think Richie is exhausting and wild. They’re casually affectionate and warm with each other, but they don’t talk all that much outside of breakfast chit chat and dinner gossip. What would they have to say to each other really? His parents probably talk about taxes and presidential elections, and probably have very little input to offer on the latest issue of **The Uncanny X-Men**. _

_Richie has Stanley. They’ve been friends since diapers, mostly because their moms are close. It works out because neither of them are very popular—if Derry Middle School was the food chain, then Richie and Stan would be the shark chum. But they also balance each other out._

_Stan is funny in a quiet way. He has an odd humor that Richie doesn’t always get—jokes that make his parents laugh, but have Richie waiting for the punchline. But Stan is good at making Richie shut up and listen when he ought to, and Richie is good at making Stan stand up and scream when he needs it most. Plus, they never fight over girls and all the dates neither of them are getting. So it’s the perfect recipe for best friends._

_But a boy can’t live off the droll affections of Stan alone. His attention is wry grins and flat stares. Richie wants fireworks. And, well, there is_ **_one_ ** _person that makes Richie feel like that. A boy. Little Eddie Kaspbrak—a real, genuine nemesis if he ever had one._

_It isn’t anything like Bowers, Hockstetter, Vic, and Belch. Eddie doesn’t noogie, wedgie, throw sand in Richie’s face, or even make him eat mud like the dickhead gang from hell. No. He’s so much better than all that, going red in the face as he screams at him across the parking lot, or courtyard, or cafeteria. He’s got a set of lungs on him, and he uses them whenever he can._

_And Richie doesn’t know why he loves pissing the little guy off, but it gets his heart racing like nothing else. The full force of Eddie’s attention is what a barely pubescent Richie Tozier imagines drugs are like. He wants all of it all the time. No small piece of it will do. And maybe, if it weren’t for that, the two of them could have been friends in another world._

_As it is, Richie does his best to torture long-winded, fast as lighting, top-volume diatribes out of the kid. He gives him wet-willies and trips him down the halls and says things like, “You think your mom’ll come to the spring dance with me, Spaghetti Head? Or did you already nab her as_ **_your_ ** _date?”_

_Then Eddie’s whole body vibrates with rage, and he shrieks, “Shut up, you stupid trashmouth! I hope you choke on your buck teeth and die!”_

_And Richie floats on cloud 9 all the way home.  
_

—————————————————  


Richie can feel that same childlike restlessness worming its way under his skin. He drives over the Kissing Bridge, passing through the wooden tunnel, and he feels two feet tall. The tunnel is covered in a fresh coat of vibrant red paint, but he feels the vicious old insults carved into the planks staring at him like eyes in the dark.

This is usually when he’d start riffing jokes. Filling the silence and soothing nerves with the begrudging laughter of friends. But he has no use for jokes when he’s all alone, and he’s never liked the echo of this place.

In some poetically gruesome parallelism, Richie’s just like that echo—bouncing off the walls of his new life to return to where it all started. Man, what a pile of shit his existence is about to be. He wonders who else left just to drag their feet back home. And who never got out in the first place.

A reluctant thrill pierces through his guts.

 _Stop_ , he warns himself. _Don’t_.

Anything good he left behind in Derry surely didn’t stick around. And if it did, it surely isn’t good anymore. Even the best things spoil here, like milk left out in the summer sun.  


—————————————————  


_By the time high school crashes in around Richie at full force, most people have gotten too used to his antics. Even Eddie’s gotten a little too good at ignoring him. So he’s seventeen, and he just gets louder and raunchier and all the more desperate, and that kind of works for a while._

_The shock value is a surefire way to get attention. And detention. But negative feedback is still feedback, so while he’s bringing home straight A’s, he’s also bringing home disciplinary slips. He gets somber lectures from his parents and teachers, all of them telling him how disappointed they are because they know that he can do better._

_For a while, Richie lives off of that. That hope they have for him. The more he acts out, the more everyone says they know that, deep down, he’s a good kid. Even old-before-his-age Stan shakes his ginormous judgmental head and says, “You’re better than this, Rich.”_

_He really isn’t, though. He hates sitting still, and he loves mouthing off, and everyone at Derry High knows who he is, even if they wish they didn’t._

_Things definitely get worse with Bowers and his gang. Richie spends half his lunch periods getting tossed into dumpsters, and his mom always frets over all the new split lips and black eyes. He never tells her about Bowers' rusty little knife held to his throat, and his stomach, and the small of his back._

_But it’s fine, because things get worse with Eddie, too. In all the best ways. Eddie still wears dorky polos and stupid shorts, and he still combs his hair like a little mama’s boy, and Richie’s stomach still flip-flops every time he sees him. And, nearing the end of his tumultuous adolescence, Eddie is easier to rile up than ever._

_“Nice shorts, Eddie-bear,” Richie coos, ruffling his hair as he catches up to him on the walk home. “If your mom looked as cute as you, maybe I would have called her back after last night.”_

_Eddie’s eyes flash as he jams an elbow hard into Richie’s ribs. “Shut the fuck up, Tozier. I swear to god.”_

_Richie just hooks an arm around Eddie’s neck, reeling him in to moan loud and obnoxious in his ear, “ **Oh, Mrs. K, ride my big, throbbing hog**.”_

_“I’m not kidding, shit brain!”_

_A manic sort of cackle rips out of Richie’s chest as Eddie’s foot stomps after his toes. “It’s okay, Eds. Now that me and Sonia are lovers, you finally have a reason to call me daddy, right?”_

_A glowing red flush floods Eddie’s cheeks, and Richie only has a handful of seconds to appreciate the sight in a fuzzy haze of secret affection before a feral scream tears out of the smaller boy. Eddie flings his body at Richie, and their ill-fated collision sends them both tumbling down the soft grassy hill that leads to the creek. They go rolling, rolling, rolling, toppling ass over kettle until they come to a stop at the damp creekbed._

_Richie lies with his back twinging in agony, rocks poking up and down his spine. His glasses hang halfway off his face, but he can see the blurry silhouette of Eddie hovering over him. He can feel his weight resting low on his hips, his legs splayed out on either side of him. He drinks in the heat of his hands, still clenched tight around the collar of his shirt._

_He can’t pull air into his lungs—all of the oxygen has either been punched out of him from the endless fall or evaporated at the thought of cute cute cute Eddie Kaspbrak fumbling around on top of him. He flails at his face, haphazardly righting his glasses and making his situation a million times worse. The vision of Eddie flushed and panting fills him with such a thrill he’s almost nauseated by it all. There’s going to be a party in his pants pretty soon, and he’s fairly certain Eddie doesn’t want to be invited._

_Swallowing around his thick, clumsy tongue, Richie opens his mouth to… To apologize? He almost makes a joke, just to break the tension or the last bit of Eddie’s sanity. He almost launches into a monologuing slog of ridiculousness, just to take the focus off his warring shame and excitement._

_But then Eddie’s diving down and planting his hands on either side of Richie’s face, slamming their lips together hard enough to hurt. Richie whimpers into his mouth, arms flying up to curl around his back as he presses forward into the kiss. It’s obvious neither of them really know what they’re doing—there’s very little finesse, all stiff, dry lips until it gives way to far too much tongue and an alarming amount of teeth. It’s awful, but it’s_ **_so_ ** _good._

_In the five long minutes they spend trying to crawl inside each other’s mouths, Richie’s whole world turns upside down. Or it’s like he’s been living his life in that stupid upside down world, and then everything suddenly flips rightside up. It’s clear as day now, the feeling he never knew how to name: he has a crush on Eddie Kaspbrak._

_Shit, he’s probably had a crush on him for a **decade**. Since first grade. Since he first saw him laugh so hard his sides ached and his eyes watered—so tickled by something stupid Bill Denbrough had stuttered—and the sound struck some secret chord deep down in Richie’s chest. _

_And there must have been some instinct in Richie, even then, even though he didn’t even understand what he was really feeling. He must have known then like he knows all too well now that a boy like Eddie—or most boys, or any boy—would never ever feel the same way about him. So to fill the terrible void of wanting, he fills the space between them with childish antagonism. Because if the only way he ever gets to have Eddie’s attention is to have his pure, unadulterated hatred, then he’ll take that in a second._

_Except… Except now they’re kissing? And what does this all even **mean**? _

_Eddie must be going through some mental calculations of his own, because he suddenly tears his mouth away. His eyes widen in glassy horror as he looks down at Richie and his mussed curls, foggy glasses, and swollen lips. He looks like he’s about to be sick. Like_ **_Richie_ ** _makes him sick._

 _He pushes at Richie’s shoulders in a panic, flattening him back out on the muddy ground. Then he’s scrambling off of him and running. Running faster than Richie has ever seen him go, until he disappears through the treeline before Richie can even catch his breath.  
_

—————————————————  


The streets are nearly empty as Richie coasts through the familiarly whimsical maze of little shops and houses that lead up to his parents’ street. It’s cleaner than he remembers it all. It’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it? When you go home, everything is supposed to be a little more disappointing than when you were a kid. Smaller and less shiny.

But Richie was filled with so much hatred back then—both towards himself and everyone around him—that it makes a certain sort of sense that things look brighter now. Now that he’s a little more comfortable in his own skin. Now that he’s learned to stretch his legs and speak his truths. Now that waking up in the morning doesn’t feel harder than army crawling naked across broken glass.

His life in Chicago was great. It did him a lot of good.

He had a big, beautiful apartment, and he didn’t even have to share it with anybody. There was a whole extra bedroom that he used as a Frankenstein combination of an office/gym, which really just meant he kept an old MacBook on a thrift store desk and stored some free weights in the corner. His kitchen was spacious and sleek, and though he’s never really had the patience for cooking, he had a nice table that he ate a lot of takeout on. There was a lot of natural lighting, so if he’d ever gotten around to decorating with some plants he’d forget to water, that probably would have been neat.

He didn’t hang out with the officers in his precinct all that much outside of work and the occasional large celebratory gathering. But he went to the movies sometimes with their administrator, Julie, because she likes the really gory horror movies that Richie lives for. He went to baseball games with this guy, Joey, who lives on the floor above him, and sometimes they’d hang out in the off season too, and maybe play a few video games when they had the time. There was also Matt, who he met at a bar and almost hooked up with, but ultimately didn’t because neither of them were all that into it. They ran together in the mornings, and they grabbed lunch, and they judged each other’s sex lives. They’re pretty close, even if sometimes they lose touch for weeks at a time.

Richie dated some. Okay. He dated a _lot_. He’s what Julie would call a “serial monogamist” as they chatted quietly through mouthfuls of popcorn over pre-preview commercials. He fell hard and fast for guys, and as soon as one was out the door, another was walking in. It’s not like his boyfriends didn’t mean anything to him, but he could hardly be blamed for a quick turn around when his relationship lengths were batting an average of three weeks. He’d lasted as long as seven months once, but both of them were faking a fair amount of interest, attraction, and patience for most of it. Some people just don’t work out together, and so what if Richie is determined to work through the world’s entire gay population on a quest to find the one man who’s just right?

Work was… Well. Richie worked hard. He was good at his job, and he loved what he did. If most of the guys in the precinct were skeptical of him at first because he’s gay or obnoxious or _both_ , then most of them got over it. It’s not like Richie went into law enforcement to make friends. He knew the score going into it. He knew he’d have to bust his ass more than anyone else to get half the credit. It's fine.

And even if there’s the faintest whisper of loneliness left in his life, then it’s still worlds above his life in Derry fucking Maine. After he checks in on his family, he can go anywhere. San Francisco—gay cops are probably super popular there, both in the force _and_ in the sheets. New York—everyone hates everyone pretty equally there. Hell, he could even go to Miami, if he's feeling particularly masochistic.

The world is his oyster as soon as he’s done here. Honestly, fuck Derry. So what if half the buildings aren’t condemned? So what if the neighbors have started waving at each other? So what if they cleaned the big, ugly swastika off the movie theater, or put up streetlights on the darkest roads, or set up a Gay and Lesbian Resource Center in the smallest corner office of the community building? 

This place is still evil. Richie can still feel the ghosts of the past tickling at the back of his neck, always right behind his shoulder. There’s not a lot that he ever forgot, and even less that he’ll ever forgive.  


—————————————————  


_Richie has almost convinced himself it was all a dream. The kiss. He’s even almost convinced himself that it was all some twisted act of annual charity on Eddie’s end. In his more optimistic moments, he’s almost convinced himself that when he sees Eddie again, everything will be different—that they’ll hold hands, and go on dates, and even dance at prom._

_But as soon as he gets to school the next morning, he’s only convinced of one thing: Eddie Kaspbrak is the devil._

_His locker is covered in violent and hateful scrawls of thick, black marker. **Fags die** and **Richie Tozier sucks flamer cock** and the artfully simplistic **AIDS**. And pungent gray smoke billows out through the vents. Heat licks at Richie’s trembling fingers as he spins his lock, and he slams his giant chemistry textbook down on top of the flaming paper bag to quell the small fire, knowing all his notes and papers are probably splattered with singed cow shit. _

_Everyone is staring. They’re whispering. Laughing. He doesn’t know who Eddie told. How many people. But it doesn’t matter—it only takes one. And now it’s out. **He** is out. And it’s on his locker. And he’s a dead man. Because everyone knows and nothing will ever, ever be the same. _

_That weird kid who used to be homeschooled—Mike something—pushes through the crowd with something like alarm on his face at the sight of the thinning smoke. “Hey man, are you o—”_

_Richie shoves him hard with a forearm to the chest. All he knows is that Mike is friends with Eddie, and he hates Eddie, so now he hates Mike. He hates everyone._

_So he just starts walking. Calm and steady back through the halls toward the big double doors of the entryway. Tears are burning hot at his eyes, but he isn't going to cry here. Not in front of all these awful vultures. It’s bad enough that his terrible unknowable secret got out. He isn’t going to prove to all of them that he’s a weak little cry baby on top of being a sick little queer._

_Eddie’s walking up the front steps as soon as Richie bursts out of the door. There’s something odd happening to his face, like he can’t quite settle on a reaction. His eyebrows hike up in surprise, but then a light floods his dark brown eyes, like he’s almost excited to see Richie. Richie can’t even dismiss the idea as impossible before Eddie’s brow crumples in worry. And his face pales at something written too plainly across Richie’s face._

_And that’s part of Richie’s problem, though, isn’t it? How obviously he wears what he is. How he feels. Even before people really knew, they **knew**. Eddie probably didn’t have to try very hard to spread the news like wildfire. _

_Richie Tozier is a big homo._

_“You’re pathetic,” Richie whispers before Eddie can get a handle on his own emotional rollercoaster. His chest feels like it’s been run over by a semi-truck, and he wants the cruel little teenager in front of him to know one fraction of how it aches. “You’re a prissy little mama’s boy who walks around like some holier-than-thou princess to try and hide the fact that all you are is a big, losery pussy.” The tears spill over onto his cheeks, and he's disgusted with himself down to the very last atom. “You’re a shitty kisser, Eddie Kaspbrak, and I fucking hate you.”  
  
_

—————————————————  
  


His parents’ lawn is overgrown in a way that never would have flown when Richie was on mowing duty. The mailbox is overflowing with bills and letters, like his mom blocked out all thoughts of menial chores in lieu of the all-consuming urgent day-to-day care of her husband. Christmas lights still hang sad and unlit around the gutters, even as the calendar flips closer to March. And a suspicious brown truck sits in the driveway.

Richie parks along the street, because if there’s an unpleasant guest inside—which most guests in Derry tend to be—then he certainly doesn’t want to block their exit. He climbs out of his car and makes a detour to the mailbox, figuring every little task helps. Even as he piles the hefty stack of mail in the crook of his elbow, he doesn’t take his suspicious eyes off the truck, like the realization of who the owner is will just pop into his head if he stares long enough.

He hopes it’s just a visit from a much needed friend. He doesn’t want to have to put on his Cop Voice to scare off some bill collectors. It always makes him feel a bit silly—even though he’s tall with shoulders broader than Texas, he’s never felt particularly intimidating. His investigations tend to run on charm, cleverness, undepletable stores of energy, and dogged determination. He’d definitely be the first to eat it in a gritty cop movie.

As he stands on the front porch feeling like he’s outgrown his childhood home so much he could blow it away with a wheeze, he almost knocks. But he’s still got the house key on his ring, and with all of his most important belongings crammed into a suitcase in the back of his car, it seems kind of dumb to wait for an invitation.

Pushing through the front door to the foyer, it feels like he’s stumbling through a snapshot in time. He feels that naive jolt of invincibility from his garish and fumbling teenage years. Then, as if he’s toeing backward even further through the past, he's consumed by that tiny, elementary age desire to bury his face in his mom’s shoulder and be told everything is going to be okay.

“Ma?” He hears the clinking of mugs in the kitchen and shuffles forward, dropping the mail on the front table as he passes. “I made it. I have all my fingers and toes and everything.”

Maggie Tozier rounds the corner, a tired smile splitting her mouth. “Richie baby, it’s so good to see you.” She pads forward to stand in front of him, waiting for him to lean over so she can drop a kiss to his cheek. She looks him over like he’s still seventeen and she’s on the prowl for cuts and bruises and other signs she should scowl at the extended Bowers family as they pass. “You look good.”

“I don’t,” he laughs, pulling his mother into a hug that swallows her whole. “But thanks.”

She gives him a disapproving look, never a fan of his more self-deprecating humor. “Stop that. You’re so handsome! You look just like your father.”

Richie can’t help his instinctual grimace. He came to terms with being an absolute fucking dork years ago, but having the genetic inescapability of it rubbed in his face still smarts. “Awesome…”

“You’re a little stinky from all that time in the car,” his mother continues, swiping a hand down his t-shirt like that’s going to get rid of the wrinkles along with the cheeto crumbs. But her eyes light up, and Richie knows he’s in for trouble. “We have a guest, you know. You should change your shirt. Maybe put on some new deodorant.”

Richie gently takes her fussing hands, squeezing fondly. “And who are we entertaining this evening?”

The light in her eyes spreads to her whole face, which tends to mean she’s either angling to arrange him a marriage or trick him into moving back home for good. “Police Captain Hanscom!”

" _Who_?” Of all the names burned into his memory from Derry, that certainly isn’t one of them. New blood taking charge? Sounds suspicious. “Look, I’m not going to get all gussied up for some ambush job interview.”

“That’s okay,” a teasing voice drawls. Richie’s head snaps up to see a devastatingly familiar shock of red hair rounding the corner. “I don’t mind the smell. After all the trouble we used to get up to together, I’m sure I’ve smelled worse, Stink Boy.”

“Bev!” Richie scrambles forward to scoop her up in a hug, spinning them both as she cackles with wild laughter. “What the fuck! You’re a big hotshot captain now?!”

Her laughter softens as Richie sets her down. “Don’t sound so surprised. We always talked about nabbing a badge, didn’t we? I’ve always been an overachiever.”

A bittersweet pride swells in his chest. “I’m not shocked that you’re kicking ass. Just that you’re doing it here.”

The amusement lingering on her soft features melts away into a wistful sadness. “You may hate it here, Rich, but it’s the first place that ever gave me things to care about. Even if one of those things left me behind in his dust.”

She says it with her infamously impish smile, but a slippery shame still twists in his gut. “I didn’t—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she cuts him off, making him exhale in heavy relief. “We’re all grown up now. We’ve changed. Derry’s changed. Bygones, you know?”

Easier said than done.

“Speaking of change,” he lifts Bev’s left hand, like he’s a QVC model putting her bling on display. “These rings are new. Would it be erroneous of me to guess you got them at the same time you picked up that lovely new last name?”

She rolls her eyes, wiggling her fingers so the diamond of her engagement ring catches the light. “The gossip is true: you’re a wonderful detective. Someone’s made an honest woman out of me. The second time’s the charm, I guess.”

Richie drops her hand in surprise and takes a too long beat to wonder what idiot of a first husband must have been fool enough to ruin a life with someone as spectacular as Beverly Marsh. And how wonderful Mr. Hanscom must be to get to keep her. “Well,” Richie fumbles to pick up the line of conversation, a little choked up. “I hope your hubby is as handsome and kind as you deserve. And has a gigantic—” He pauses, glancing at his mom. “Vocabulary.”

Maggie scoffs, folding her arms across her stomach. “I know what a penis is, Richard.”

“Mother, please,” he presses a palm to his chest in faux offense. “There are children present.”

“There’s certainly one,” she mutters, though her restrained amusement is undeniable. She starts for the stairs. “I’m going to go see if your father is awake. He’ll be excited to see you, for some reason.”

“Hopefully not too excited!” He calls after her. “I don’t have the doctor on speed dial!”

Beverly punches at his arm, as strong as ever. “You’re terrible.”

“I do my best,” he shrugs, grinning like a loon. “But she’s gone now. You can dish all the dirty deets. What’s the pubic situation? I’m not particularly a size queen myself, but I’ve got to know the general merits of his dong if I’m gonna—”

“I’m packing heat right now, Tozier. Watch it,” she laughs. “I’m not going to discuss my husband’s penis with you. Not sober, anyway. But I can say he’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Smart. Brave. Runs into burning buildings for a living.”

“Oooh. A fireman. Okay. I’m getting some good visuals on the kinda guy he is. Yeah. Bet he can toss you around real sexy like, huh?”

Beverly Marsh— _Hanscom_ now, which will definitely take some getting used to—has never been the type of woman to blush. Even now she just arches a brow. “Who says I’m not the one doing the tossing?”

Richie’s smile sharpens with delight. “ _Beverly—_ ”

“You were never all that good at distracting me,” she cuts him off. “I don’t know why you think it’ll work now.”

Deflating, Richie lets the exhaustion of his journey settle in over him. Gone is the feeling of recapturing his frantic youth. He’s just a guy nearing his mid-thirties who built a mediocre empire of loneliness several state lines away. “I don’t need a job, Bev. I certainly don’t need one here.”

“Maybe the job needs you,” she says simply. She has a habit of doing that—breaking things down into their most digestible parts. “Whatever you might think, your mom didn’t track me down to beg on her hands and knees to get me to trick you into staying. I’ve been keeping tabs on you since you left. A little more thoroughly since things started getting suspicious around the precinct. I need someone I can trust on my payroll.”

“You barely know me anymore,” he protests.

Bev shrugs, a nostalgic warmth coloring her eyes. “Maybe not. It’s been a long time, for sure. But I know that even when this town gave you every reason not to be, you still made a point of being kind. A feral force of chaos, yeah. But a kind one. And you’re a good cop, even if some people didn’t want to give you the chance to be. And even if you hate this place, you still know it like the back of your hand.”

“I came here to take care of my dad. I can’t do that if I’m running around playing Cops and Robbers: Bumfuck Edition.”

“Don’t you think it would be a little more helpful if you contributed to bills so Maggie doesn’t have to keel over working seven days a week? Besides, if you give her the time off, she’s better at bullying Went into eating healthy than you’ll ever be.”

Maybe his mom didn’t beg Bev to tie him down to Derry, but she certainly helped her strategize. “I _can’t_.”

“You could.” Bev pulls out a business card and a pen from her pocket and starts scribbling. “Think it over. Catch up with your family tonight—they’ve missed you. If you’re intrigued enough to continue our conversation, meet me here for breakfast tomorrow at eight.”

Richie sighs, pocketing the card. “Don’t count on it.”

Beverly squeezes his shoulder as she passes him to get to the door. “You’ve never let me down before.”  


—————————————————  


_Richie can’t decide which part about being shoved out of the closet he hates the most._

_The way his parents push their Cheerios around their bowls, halting the cheerful breakfast smalltalk like they’re waiting for Richie to break the silence. Staring at Richie as he shovels sugary Lucky Charms into his mouth, as all three of them pretend the gossip hasn’t made its way to the Tozier’s front door. Like they don’t know their kid is a filthy, perverted, sicko of a—_

_The way even Stan is cautious around him. They still hang out. They talk less, like this is just another silence that Richie is responsible for filling, when for once he wants to keep his mouth shut. Stan looks at him differently, too. Not like Richie is… But like he’s considering. Reconsidering. But Stan is patient, so whatever he’s figured out about Richie or their friendship or the meaning of fucking life, he’s content to keep it to himself until Richie asks for it._

_The way he never speaks to Eddie anymore. The other boy stares after him with wide, dark eyes—like a frightened lamb, or a lost puppy, or a kid who made the mistake of not only kissing another boy, but kissing a boy as gangly and gross as **Richie** —but Richie never teases him like he used to. No more fighting. No more riling each other up. No more nemeses. Just weak streams of smoke where the fireworks used to be. _

_The way that Bowers and his cronies double his daily dose of torture. Slinging the vilest of slurs and profanities. Spitting on his face. Kicking him ‘til his ribs crack and his vision goes spotty. Zooming after him in Hockstetter’s car, laughing like it’s a joke, until Richie throws his body down the nearest hill, because he knows they’d laugh even if he ended up as a bloody hood ornament._

_Every slight piles up in Richie’s chest like little Lego blocks of hate. He doesn’t know what to do with it. It feels like heartburn. It feels like he’s swallowed the sun. It feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t find a way to get it out of himself soon._

_And maybe he’s never been all that good at sticking up for himself, switchblade to his face or not, but he’s about to discover he’s pretty damn good at letting the rage out when it benefits other people._

_Richie takes the backroads as he walks home—a detour he takes often, now that even the people who used to ignore him seem to have a problem sharing the same air. It’s December, and despite all his mom’s fussing and fretting as he barrels out the door each morning, he never wears warm enough clothes. His teeth are rattling, and that’s why he doesn’t hear it at first._

_There’s a clatter around the corner, down a shadowy alley where the Bad Kids smoke and the homeless people rifle around in the dumpsters. “Fuck off!” a voice shouts. A feminine voice, and Richie’s never heard a girl talk like that, except for once when a lady at the grocery store was mean to him when he was, like, **five** , and his mom blew a gasket. _

_Curiosity piqued, he peers around the corner to see a girl with short hair, wild eyes, and fists raised. Beverly Marsh, the only person left at Derry High who has a reputation worse than Richie. The only person alive who has as much disparaging graffiti around town. God only knows why. She’s pretty in a way that Richie thinks would make him really sweaty if he were interested in girls, and she’s mad funny in class, and she tries to be nice to people even when they don’t deserve it._

_But she’s flanked by Bowers and Hockstetter. It’s almost worse when they’re alone, because at least Belch and Vic have some form of conscience. The two of them together just amp each other up, pushing their criminal record to new extremes like they’re competing in the psycho Olympics. But of course they never catch trouble for anything, because Bowers’ dad is a cop._

_“You don’t have to pretend to put up a fight,” Bowers teases, looming closer just to make her flinch. “Everyone knows you give it up all over town. Or did you start charging?”_

_She takes a swing at him, but Hockstetter wraps an arm around her waist before the punch lands. She’s lifted off her feet, and she manages one good kick to Bowers’ stomach before he curls a painfully tight grip around her ankle. They toss her around like she’s nothing._

_Richie’s vision goes red._

_The thing is, Richie loves baseball. He’s always loved baseball—it’s probably the one thing he and his dad have to talk about these days. Richie’s played since he joined up for Little League when he was eight, Eddie Kaspbrak wheezing jealously from the other side of the fence. He’s no pro, but he’s pretty good. Honestly, he’s shit at running, but he’s a monster with a bat and a sniper with a ball. Come Spring, all the guys probably won’t want to share a locker room with him anymore though, so he’s got to get his throws in while he can._

_“Hey!” Bowers and Hockstetter turn in surprise, Bev slipping through their grip to fall on her knees between them. Richie picks up an empty beer bottle and lobs it at Bowers’ head. It doesn’t shatter like in the movies, but as it beans him in the forehead, his head snaps back and his feet stumble ‘til he falls back flat on his ass._

_“You little shit,” Hockstetter growls._

_Richie’s heart drops out of his chest. This is it. This is how he dies._

_But as Hockstetter takes a step towards him, Beverly jerks his legs out from under him, sending him sprawling out on top of Bowers. Two-on-two, these guys aren’t so tough, especially since Richie had a growth spurt a summer or two ago that had him shooting up taller than both of them._

_Beverly scrambles up to her feet and kicks Hockstetter in the back of the head, all of her pent up rage bubbling over into savagery. As the bullies tumble over each other, Richie scoops up a dented and twisted up copper pipe. Bowers and Hockstetter freeze on their hands and knees, because Derry is a boring shithole, and most teenagers have nothing better to do every March than watch lucky number 13 Richie Tozier slam balls across the baseball field._

_Wisely, Hockstetter spits the blood in his mouth out on the ground by Beverly’s feet, tugging Bowers to the side to skirt past her and Richie. Bowers hands clench like he wants to bring a switchblade to a pipe fight, but he settles for the parting threat, “You’re dead next time we meet, Butt Boy.”_

_“It’s a date,” Richie taunts, because he can never keep his mouth shut._

_As the two serial killers in training dart off into the sunset together, Beverly laughs. It’s a little manic. A little relieved. A little genuinely amused, too. “You’re somethin’ else, Richie Tozier. Thanks for the assist.”_

_Richie huffs his own dizzy little laugh. “Yeah. I mean, you’re welcome. Felt kinda good.”_

_Beverly tosses him a wink and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”_

_“Oh, uh.” He’s never smoked before, and after looking cool for once in his life, he’s not about to embarrass himself by coughing up a lung. “No thanks.”_

_“Mind if I smoke?”_

_Richie just shrugs, and then by some unspoken agreement they’re walking together as Beverly lights up. They’ve never hung about before. Never spoken outside of the one assignment they had to do together in English Lit. It should be weird, but instead it’s just… comfortable._

_After a long moment, Beverly shatters the silence no one else will touch. She asks the question everyone refuses to put into words. “Did you really kiss Eddie Kaspbrak?”_

_‘Eddie Kaspbrak kissed **me** ,’ he wants to say. But he supposes that distinction doesn’t really matter. He kissed him back. He liked it. It made the sun shine and the grass grow and his soul soar. He would have gladly spent the rest of his life doing nothing but kissing him, and that’s the difference. Eddie might have kissed him, but Richie liked it. _

_“Yeah. I kissed him.”_

_Beverly nods, long and slow. Not like she’s being careful—not like how Stan tiptoes like Richie is going to break into a million pieces—but like she’s letting the words absorb through her skin. “I’ve never kissed anyone. Not really. I mean, not that I wanted to kiss.”_

_“I wanted him,” Richie says. And it’s like someone removed a thorn in his side that he never knew was there. Like the world is still a scary place, but he maybe has the claws to fight his way through it. “I want him. All the time. I… I’m gay.”_

_“Okay,” she replies, as simply as if Richie’s announced he prefers the taste of blue raspberry slushies to cherry. “Does he want you back?”_

_Richie scoffs, kicking a rock so it rattles and skips down the sidewalk. “Of course not.”_

_Beverly stops walking, turning to face Richie as she exhales a puff of smoke. “If you’re… I mean, if you want those guys to leave you alone, we could pretend you and I are a thing. I don’t mind. Enough people lie about me that it’d be almost nice to do it myself, for a change.”_

_“I don’t give a shit what they think.” It’s a lie, but it feels amazing. It feels powerful and new. “And I’d rather have you as a friend than use you like all those other creeps.”_

_A beaming grin breaks over Beverly’s sweet face. She rises up on her tiptoes to hook her arm around Richie’s neck. “You’re pretty okay, Tozier.”_

_Richie holds her snug to his side as they start walking again, bumping and tripping over each other. “You’re not so bad yourself, Miss Marsh.”  
_

—————————————————  


Richie shows up to the quaint little cafe Bev’s chicken scratch directed him to, but he makes a point of showing up fifteen minutes late. It’s moderately sized—big enough that it can accomodate the cluster of people who are obviously loyal frequenters, but small enough that it still feels cozy and intimate. The chatter around the place is a dull hum, like the drowsy quiet of Sunday morning pancakes with his mom and dad throughout childhood.

Except he’s an adult, his father no longer has the constitution for buttery flapjacks, and it’s Tuesday.

He finds Bev sitting at a table in the middle of the dining floor, serenely sipping coffee from an oversized mug. He plops down across from her, shivering from the chill he never prepares for. “Sorry I’m late.”

Beverly smirks, like she knows exactly what game he’s playing. And Christ, maybe she does. Richie has never been good at being anything other than completely transparent. It makes all of his relationships disasters when it’s obvious he’s halfway in love with a guy after two dates.

“Glad you could make it,” she drawls, passing him a plasticy menu. “Order whatever you want. I’m paying.”

“Trying to bribe me with bagels?”

“They have pretty good omelettes, too,” she jokes. 

The waitress comes around quickly—a short, perky brunette named Kelly, with more pep than a single professional football field would be able to contain. She gossips a bit with Bev before fawning over Richie in a way that’s not flirtatious, just… nice. It still makes him uncomfortable, so he quickly orders scrambled eggs and more bacon that is probably wise for someone who shares genetics with a man who’s doubling down on heart attacks. 

“She’s sweet,” Beverly sighs fondly as Kelly skips away. “The kind of girl we definitely would have hated for no reason in high school, but just really genuinely sweet. Her brother Andy is, too. He’s on the force.”

“Is he cute?” Richie jokes, even though Kelly can’t be all that much older than nineteen, and he can’t imagine this Andy or whoever is anything even close to age appropriate.

Beverly snorts into her next sip of coffee. “Let’s not pretend like you’ve ever liked your men _sweet_ , Rich. Your heart doesn’t go pitter-patter unless they’ve got claws.”

His heart constricts in his chest. It’s not untrue. It’s just hard to find someone who strikes the balance of both kind and feisty. Prickly and sweet, like that cactus that looks like a pear. Mostly he just dates a lot of men who are straight up pricks. And the alternative seems to be men who bore him to tears. 

“So what’s the situation?” Richie mutters, ripping up bits of paper napkins. “What’s going on at your precinct that you need little ol’ me so bad?”

Beverly’s bright eyes go somber. “I’m really worried, Rich. There’s always going to be trouble kicking around, but the past few years have been really great, you know? Or I guess you don’t. But. Lately it seems like something’s stirring. Like there’s about to be a really big setback. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”

“‘Paranoid’ is just another word for ‘women who are right.’” Richie leans forward to drop his voice. “What kind of setback are we talking here?”

She shakes her head, frustrated at her lack of tangible answers. “I’m not sure. But there’s a lot of small things adding up. Petty robberies that are a little too dangerous. Strange fires. Suspicious injuries in the E.R. Not to mention I think…”

“What?”

“Some of our stuff in the evidence lockup… Nothing’s gone missing, but some of it gets corrupted. At first it was a random little leak in the ceiling. Some magnetization on our tapes. More and more stupid mistakes contaminating DNA. I just. I don’t have an incompetent team, Richie.”

Richie leans back in his chair as Kelly bounces by with his food. She gives a bubbly smile, and he does his best to mirror it until she leaves. He turns to Bev, brow set. “So, what? You think there’s someone on the force playing for the bad guys? You think there’s organized crime? In _Derry_?”

Beverly laughs, a weak and shaken thing. “I’m not talking about some _Sopranos_ level schemes. But since you’ve been gone, there’s been a lot of growth. A lot of new people coming in and helping a bunch of us—me, and the mayor, and others—work really hard to turn this place around. We’re bringing money in, flipping things, changing minds. Some of the old locals… they maybe feel like they’re losing what Derry used to be.”

He nods, clinking his fork against the rim of the plate. Not shocked, not disappointed, not even all that interested. “You think the backwards yokels are trying to take the town back from all the fresh faces, fairies, and fiery lady cops.”

“Not in so many words,” she grimaces. “It’s just Derry used to function on people in power turning a blind eye. Some people just don’t like the new attention.”

What little appetite Richie came with sours, and he pushes what’s left of his breakfast away. "I don’t know, Bev. If those fuckers want this shithole so bad, maybe just let them have it. There are greener pastures out there for everyone.”

Beverly puts her coffee mug down with a little too much force. “Look, I get it. I was there in the trenches with you, buddy. I know this place seemed to pick you as its favorite punching bag, but the kids who used to torment you grew up. Sure, some of them are in prison now, but a lot of them are good people who didn’t know any better. And those old chumps who looked the other way, plenty of them got educated, too.”

“I don’t owe this place anything,” he snaps. He takes a deep breath. Tries again, softer. “I’m glad things are changing. Really. I’m glad that the next gay kid that goes through Derry High probably won’t have to puke every morning he gets to school because he doesn’t know how seriously to take the deaths threats in his locker. But it’s not my responsibility to make these people better than they are.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Bev agrees. “But you know you weren’t the only queer kid kicking around Derry, right?”

Richie’s mind immediately flashes to Eddie, and the worst best first kiss ever. He’s spent way too many hours, even as an adult, wondering if the other boy smushed their awkward mouths together because he’s gay, or because he was confused, or because he was just setting up a cruel and devastating trap.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat too long. “I know that.”

“After you left, a few people like you followed in your footsteps. Made sense. I mean, you had it pretty rough. But a few people were too stubborn to go, and a lot more didn’t have the means to leave. Now, some of those people didn’t get too good of an ending after everything was said and done. But plenty have fought and won their happiness, and they stick around and do their best to make it easier for all the people that come after them. No one’s saying you have to do the same, Rich. No one would blame you if you hightailed it out of here all over again. It’s just that you’re lucky enough to have the power and courage to be able to make a difference if you decide to. And I don’t want you to regret it if you don’t.”

Bitterness coats Richie’s throat, and tongue, and words. “You don’t know anything about my regrets, Beverly.”

“You really believe that? Fine. But if the way your mom describes your situation is any indication, it sounds like you need some kind of closure. This could be your chance. If you keep running from everything your whole life, you’ll never have anything real.”

It’s not like Richie doesn’t know he lives an empty existence. He bounces from boyfriend to boyfriend, apartment to apartment, reality tv trash to fad diet to weird recreational night class—anything to try and fill that hungry void inside of him. It’s like he’s Goldilocks with depression, ADHD, and a body closer to the bears. It just hurts that it’s obvious enough that even his mom feels comfortable gossiping about it.

“Ah,” he starts weakly. “Well.”

Beverly’s face crumples in guilt, just like it used to when they were children too big for their bodies, jamming too roughly at each other’s tender buttons. “Fuck. Let me try that again.”

“It’s fine,” Richie half-heartedly brushes it off. His cheeks are hot and it feels like everyone in the cafe is suddenly staring at him. “Forget it.”

“Richie, I—”

The door to the cafe slams open, and the chatter of the dining floor cuts out in one synchronized reaction as everyone turns their attention to the intruders. Two men—boys, really, if Richie had to guess from their gangly limbs and ill-fitting clothes—stand in the gaping doorway. Guns are held awkwardly in their tough guy grips, and their identities are half-concealed by backward baseball caps and bandanas tied around the lower halves of their faces.

“Nobody move!” The smaller of the two shouts in a cracking voice. “We just want your cash, but we won’t hesitate to shoot!”

“Jesus Christ,” Richie whispers. “What do they think this is, _Pulp Fiction_?”

Beverly snorts, hand resting on the piece at her hip. “I never said the uptick in crimes were _smart_.”

Richie doesn’t like the way the taller, nervous guy’s hands shake as he moves toward the back of the cafe. Richie also doesn’t like the itch under his skin at the fact that he’s technically a _civilian_ during this altercation. It’s like Bev set up a half-baked robbery just to prove a point—Richie hates feeling useless, more so in Derry than he ever has anywhere else.

Each of the robbers slip a backpack off their shoulders, unzipping the main compartment and holding it forward. As they make their rounds collecting wallets, Beverly keeps one eye on the situation as she tries to covertly text for back up. They’re in a jam that could go south fast—especially at the hands of such obvious amateurs—and one wrong move could turn a hotheaded robbery into a hostage situation. Or worse.

“Hey!” The smaller robber whips around, pointing the barrel of his pistol between Bev’s eyes. Always putting others before herself, Bev moves the hand that was tentatively hovering over her gun to raise both arms palms out in submission. “You trying to call the cops?”

“No,” she answers calmly. “I am the cops.”

“ _Shit_.” Shortstack makes nervous eye contact with Beanpole. “What the fuck do we do, man?”

It happens so fast. While the wannabe outlaws are distracted, Beverly lunges forward to disarm the shorter boy. She tosses his gun onto the tabletop and bends his arm behind his back, sending him to his knees face first as she’s whipping out a pair of cuffs. But the taller bundle of nerves panics, and he makes a grab for poor, sweet Kelly, hooking his arm around her throat and pressing his gun to her temple.

“Everybody just hold on a goddamn second!” He shouts, sweat pouring down his forehead. “No one move!”

But Richie moves. He scoops the gun off the table and rises to his feet. This kid may be tall, but Richie’s still got a couple of inches on him, and certainly more weight and muscle. Besides, even if he feels like a jerkoff when he hardens his voice into something stern and authoritative, it never fails to have teenagers pissing their pants. “Drop your weapon and let the girl go. _Now_.”

Beverly leaves the handcuffed accomplice curled up on the floor and joins Richie’s side with her piece raised. “There’s a lot more jail time for hurting a nice girl like Kelly than there is for jacking a few wallets.”

The kid glances at his buddy on the floor before darting his eyes between Bev and Richie. His maneuver happens even faster than Bev’s. He shoves Kelly towards Beverly and takes off in Richie’s direction. As Richie reaches for him, he swings his gun with vicious force against his temple. The kid is vaulting over the table and toward the door, and Beverly is taking off after him.

But Richie is crumpling to the floor.

He’s dizzy and nauseous and every nerve ending in his body feels like it’s concentrated on the ache at the side of his head. He’s… Sticky. Bleeding.

Kelly screams and drops to her knees, sliding a hand under his head where he hit the floor almost as hard as the thieving little shit hit him. “Somebody help! Is there a doctor?”

“I’ve got it! I’ve got him!”

And suddenly warm, strong hands are framing the sides of Richie’s face. A steady weight presses against his side, and as Richie fumbles in confusion, one of his palms cups around a knee. A very nice knee. “H’lo,” he slurs, squeezing the denim clad knee tight. “Did I fall?”

The man over him frowns and holds a finger in front of his face. “Hey, I need you to follow my finger, okay? Can you do that?”

Richie’s vision starts to adjust, but he’s not looking at the finger wiggling in circles around his nose. He’s looking at big brown eyes, a pronounced brow, and sweet secret freckles all along the bridge of a cute little nose. “Eddie? Eddie Kaspbrak?”

The man drops his hand to fall limply against Richie’s chest. He blinks a little in surprise before his fingers curl too tight around Richie’s faded gray t-shirt. “Richie Tozier?”

“You’re all grown up,” Richie mutters slow and muddled, his eyes drooping. “And still so...”

Then everything goes abruptly black.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments, and kudos/bookmark if you're feelin' it. Please scream in my face about these dudes or leave prompts in my inbox over on tumblr at [BisexualGoblin](https://bisexualgoblin.tumblr.com).


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